


The Lighthouse

by copperleaves



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Hurt Sam Winchester, Sam-Centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 14:16:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6119014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copperleaves/pseuds/copperleaves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a lonely cliff on the coast of Maine, a lighthouse stands watch over the pounding, restless sea below. There is a house nearby, a rambling white Victorian, as cozy and warm as the cliffs are bleak and cold.</p><p>Lighthouses are hunter waypoints, small rest stops where a hunter can get a “hot and a cot.” This particular lighthouse is maintained by a petite redhead who smells like lavender and mint. Her name is Olivia, she tells Sam, and when he finds himself temporarily abandoned by his brother and injured by a monster they were hunting, she takes him in.</p><p>Though they only spend a few days together in the cozy house on the lonely cliff, Sam finds that the enigmatic lighthouse keeper has a cure for more than just his aching head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Welcome to Maine

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my bang partner/artist electriclita for the lovely divider images and other pretty art!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Wow I haven't written spn fic in a LONG time, but here we go. This is my entry for the 2016 Sam Winchester Big Bang event over on tumblr and LJ. Enjoy it!

The hunt hadn't really felt like a hunt at all. Not so far.

"Are we sure we're not just chasing a really sick human serial killer?" Sam had asked Dean at their last stop, some hole-in-the-wall in New Hampshire.

"Yeah, Sam, we are. No one else is picking up all these clues; not the cops, not the Feds. I think these murders are connected, and I think it's our kinda thing."

It was exactly what he'd said every other time Sam had asked him, and at this point Sam had stopped asking. Ten murders across eleven states (there was a dismemberment issue…well. never mind.), and they'd been on the road for weeks chasing after the killer. Sam was exhausted, and he could tell Dean was too—though he probably wouldn't admit it.

"We got him this time, Sammy!" Dean said, drumming his hands against the Impala's steering wheel. "We're five minutes out from that warehouse and this is the only goddamn road. This fucker's ours!"

They'd been close before, but somehow it always managed to escape. They didn't even know exactly what they were hunting, just that it was brutal and smart. Sam managed a wary smile, and Dean frowned at him.

"Okay, look. Did you see all those signs for the lighthouse when we drove into town? Soon as this thing hits the dirt, we hit the lighthouse."

Sam shifted in his seat, adjusting his long legs as best he could and avoiding the Impala's dash from years of practice. "The lighthouse? Sightseeing, Dean?"

He cut Sam a look. "Dad or Bobby never told you about the lighthouses?"

Sam's face creased in a combination of exasperation and amusement. "I don't remember either of them having a thing for lighthouses, no."

"It ain't a _thing_ , Sammy. Lighthouses are like—hunter waypoints. Halfway houses, sorta. You always know you can get a hot meal, a bed, and patchin' up if you need it. They're lore keepers, too."

"The…lighthouses?"

An impatient sigh. "The lighthouse _keepers_. There aren't as many as there used to be; a lot of lighthouses now are controlled by computers. But we can check this one out, see if we can get a hot and a cot."

It would be nice to sleep somewhere other than the car or a shit motel for a change. And a real meal? Like, homemade and everything? Sam practically drooled at the thought.

"Yeah, okay," he said. "Sounds good."

"Let's just hope we catch this son of a bitch this time," Dean said with a growl. "I'm sick of chasin' its twisted ass up and down the eastern seaboard."

Dean flicked off the Impala's headlights as they approached the warehouse. It rose up, grimy and dilapidated, like some sort of phantom from the fog.

"This foggy around here all the time?" Sam said as they studied the place. "No wonder they need a lighthouse."

Dean tossed him a grin and a flashlight before they both grabbed their machetes and climbed out of the car. They didn't bother closing the doors, in case they needed to make a quick getaway, but Dean did pocket the keys.

"Quick and quiet," Dean whispered. "You go around back. I'll cover the front."

With a wordless nod Sam split off from his brother and crept through the underbrush. The weeds were high, and soon his jeans were soaked with dew. He frowned as he stumbled in a gopher hole. This place was a goddamn death trap; the sooner they were out of here and back to that lighthouse, the better.

The doors were held closed with a rusted, useless looking padlock. One swift smack with his flashlight took care of it, and a moment later the squeak of hinges filled the hushed night. A flock of water birds took off from the pond nearby, and Sam sighed. If their target hadn't heard the car already, it certainly knew they were here _now_.

He could see the gleam of Dean's flashlight through the shadows. Once the birds' clamor quieted he couldn't hear much of anything; the fog made everything feel like it was wrapped in cotton. His shoe scuffed the dirt and Dean called his name, all at once, rough and alarmed.

Sam rushed forward, abandoning flashlight for gun, and he'd almost reached the bobbing point of Dean's light when he felt it: a sharp sting in the back of his neck…the exact spot where all the victims had shown puncture wounds.

He cursed and stumbled, yelling for Dean, warning him. The ground appeared suddenly; it rushed toward him like a wave, and cradled him when he landed. It was soft. Pillows and clouds. His head spun and the world heaved and then, like lights being flipped, it all went black.

  
  


"Hey! Hey, gigantor. Can you hear me?"

Sam couldn't quite figure out how to open his eyes. He wanted to open them; he was sure he _did_ know how; but his eyelids wouldn't cooperate with him. Giant weights hung from them, or else they'd been turned to lead. He wasn't sure which.

"Okay, big guy, I'm gonna check a few things. Don't flip out and punch me."

The voice was husky and low, but definitely female. Not Dean for sure. That was kinda weird.

Cool hands touched his face, and a moment later he winced as a blinding light pierced first one eyeball, then the other.

"Oh, you're awake," the voice said. "Your pupils look good. I don't think you're concussed, but I'm not a doctor or anything."

He pressed a palm to his forehead and slowly, slowly opened his eyes. He could sense the speaker hovering nearby, but when he tried to turn his head a stabbing pain in his neck stopped him.

"Take it easy," she said. "I'm not sure if this thing injects venom or what, but you don't want to rush it."

He licked his lips; his tongue felt huge and swollen, coated in sandpaper; and tried to speak. "Dean…?" he croaked.

"Hmmm. You're Dean?"

"Brother."

"Oh." There was a pause. "You're the only one here, but a few minutes ago your phone was blowin' up. I think it said _Dean_ on the Caller ID. I can check your missed calls if you want…?"

"Help me up," he said instead.

"I'm not sure that's a great idea. Your head—"

"I need to sit up!" Words came easier now, tripping off his tongue in a sort of disconnected way, but thirst still burned in him like an ache. As if she read his mind, a bottle of water appeared in front of his nose like she'd conjured it.

"Don't leave home without it," she said at his look.

She set the bottle next to him and put an arm under his shoulders. She was small—or that's the sense Sam got, anyway—but strong as she gently helped him sit up. His head spun, but she steadied him a moment before leaning away again and handing him the water.

He took several long pulls and cleared his throat. "Who are you?" he said, glancing at her. She had darkish hair and a pale face, but otherwise he couldn't really make out any features in the uncertain light.

"I'm the lighthouse keeper," she said as if that explained everything.

He stared at her. She frowned. "You are a hunter, right?"

"Yeah," he said. "My brother and I."

"Okay, well. I'm the lighthouse keeper. It's my job to make sure you idiots don't get yourselves killed. I mean, sort of. It's more my job to patch you up after, and give you a place to sleep and something good to eat…but I heard about something making noise out here, something I've been tracking for a few weeks because it seemed to be heading my way, and I decided to come check it out. Good thing I did."

It was a long speech for Sam's current condition, and he couldn't quite grasp everything she said. He sipped the water and mulled it over.

Lighthouse keeper. Dean had mentioned the nearby lighthouse. Were lighthouse keepers hunters, too?

"You're a hunter too?" he said.

She shook her head. "No, not usually."

He waited for her to explain further, but after a while he realized she had no plans to. "Where's my brother? Dean?"

"I don't know. When I got here you were passed out on the floor and the place was deserted. No brother. No…whatever it is that attacked you." She jutted her chin toward him. "Check your phone."

He let out a huff of impatience but took a peek anyway. Three missed calls, all from Dean. He'd left a message the last time.

"Sammy, hey it's me. Sorry I ran out on you, but the thing took off and I went after it. I called the lighthouse to let 'em know you needed help. Listen, I got a good tail on it; it's headin' west, fast. Call me to check in."

That was all.

Sam stared at his phone like he didn't know what it was. "He left me here. Passed out?" He peered at her. "He said he called the lighthouse."

"Hum. I must've already left." Her head tilted thoughtfully. "I really should list my cell."

"I gotta call him," he said. The message could be faked. This whole thing could be faked. Dean just left him there? It sort of made sense, but still…

Sam hit the button to call his brother, and after two rings he answered. "Sammy. You okay?"

"Dean! Where are you?"

"Did you get my message?"

"Yeah, I did, but—"

"Sorry I took off like that," he said. "I didn't wanna miss the chance to go after it."

Sam glowered a moment before his expression smoothed. He didn't want to let Dean off the hook, but at the same time…it was the sort of thing their dad would do. And he _had_ called for backup.

"It's okay," he finally said. "I get it. You know what it is yet?"

"Nah. Damnedest thing. I think it's scared of the light or somethin', because it knocked mine out, hit you, and then took off hell for leather. Never seen somethin' move that fast." There was a brief pause. "Anyone from the lighthouse show up? I called."

"Yeah." Sam cut a look at the girl. "The lighthouse keeper. She didn't get your message; she was already on her way here, she said."

" _She_?" Sam could hear the smirk in Dean's voice. "She cute?"

"It's dark."

"All right, all right, don't get testy. Look, I'll be back in a few days to pick you up, okay? Meantime stay put, heal up, and, uh, find out if she's cute."

Sam rolled his eyes, then hissed at the pain. "Yeah, whatever. Call me tomorrow."

"Will do, buddy."

He hung up and looked at the girl. She'd been busily digging through the large canvas bag at her side while he talked to Dean, but now she raised her head to meet his gaze.

"Feel better now?" she said.

Either his eyesight was improving or the moon had come out, because he could see her more clearly. She _was_ cute: small, like he'd suspected, with big eyes and freckles across a straight nose. Her mouth was full, and he thought maybe her hair was a little more red than dark, but he wasn't sure.

The silence had lasted too long, and she shifted a bit and looked away, clearly uncomfortable with his stare.

"Sorry," he said. "Just trying to figure out who the hell you are."

"I told you," she said. "I'm the—"

"Lighthouse keeper. Yeah, you said that. Do you know who I am?"

Her lips curved in a sardonic half-smile. "Should I? Are you famous?"

He snorted. "Sort of. I guess. With hunters." He paused to study her face again. "I'm Sam Winchester," he said.

She lifted a brow, and he could swear she was laughing at him. "Of course you are. Well. I'll make sure to put out the good china, since hunter royalty's comin' to supper."

Sam blinked. He wasn't sure how to take that, but he thought she was making fun of him. "I didn't mean…I don't…" He stopped, flustered. "Just a lot of people know who Dean and I are," he finished, lamely.

"I know who you are. I'm pretty sure I know—at least by name—every hunter operating in North America. A few from South America, too, but they don't really get up this far north very often."

"That's kind of a weird hobby to have," he said.

Her eyes—he couldn't tell their color in the low light—narrowed as she studied him. "It's not a hobby. It's my job. My family has been keeping the lighthouse here for five generations. I was raised to do this, just like you were raised to hunt." She lifted her brows. "Weren't you?"

He didn't want to answer that question. It was too complicated and loaded with too much history. Yeah, sort of. He was raised to hunt. But his mom had never wanted them to be hunters, and really Sam should've been a Man of Letters rather than a hunter, but it all got so fucked up because their dad hated his dad for disappearing and…

Well. He certainly couldn't tell her all of that, but something about her expression told him she knew at least some of it.

"Yeah," he finally said, keeping it simple. "I was."

"Okay then." She smiled, quick and bright, and he caught the flash of a dimple that appeared and then vanished in her chin. "Listen, it's dark as hell out here and I didn't really bring enough medical supplies. Do you think you can stand up? My car's outside; I should get you to the house so I can have a better look."

"Yeah, I think…" He grimaced as the room spun around him. "I think I'm okay."

"Uh huh," she said. "Sure you are, chief." She pushed herself to her feet and held out her hand. "Let me help."

He stared at the long, delicate-looking fingers and the small palm before he looked up at her, his expression incredulous.

"I'm stronger than I look," she said with a huff. "Or I can just let you flounder there. Choice is yours, big guy."

She offered him the other hand, and after another few moments' hesitation he took them with both of his. His palms swallowed hers, but he felt the strength in her grip as she helped haul him off the cement. He stumbled, and when she caught him they both staggered and nearly went down, but at the last minute he was able to steady them. Or she did. Or they did together.

He held onto her even after his head stopped swimming because she was there, warm and solid and _real_ , and ever since he'd first heard her voice everything had seemed strange and dream-like. She didn't feel like a dream.

She smelled like rosemary and lavender and maybe, he thought, mint.

Her grip was firm, but her skin was soft. Her hair brushed his cheek and it was soft, too. Warm silk.

Clearing his throat, he pushed away from her and stood straight. She didn't quite reach his shoulder. She was looking up at him with an amused tilt to her mouth.

"Legs McGee," she said. "Wobbly as a new-born colt."

His face scrunched. "I'm fine." A pause. "Thanks for the help."

"Sure," she said with an easy shrug. "Think you can make it to the car?"

He took a quick assessment and gave a brief nod. "Yeah, think so. It's not far, right?"

"Mmhmm. Right out here."

He took a step, wobbled, and she slid her arm around his waist. "It's okay," she said. "I'm stronger than I look."

His mouth quirked. "You said that."

"Thought it bore repeating."

They shuffled along in silence until they got to her car, and he couldn't smother a grin. "My brother would like this car," he said. It was a black Mercury Cougar, probably a '70, and even in the faint light it shone.

"Your brother a car guy?"

Sam lifted a shoulder. "You could say that."

She unlocked the passenger side and helped him in. He folded his long legs up from years of practice in the Impala, and once he was settled she shut the door and headed around the hood.

"He's completely impractical for winter," she said as she climbed in. "I'll have to put him back in storage in another week or so, but for now…" She grinned as she started the engine and gunned it. "Listen to him purr."

Sam was reminded so strongly of Dean he couldn't help but laugh. "Yeah, my brother would definitely like this car."

Gravel crunched under the tires as she navigated the track back to the main road. He cut little glances at her, trying not to stare again. There was a line between her brows, one of concentration, and he decided her hair was definitely red.

"I don't even know your name," he blurted. It hadn't occurred to him before.

She laughed, sweet and high and completely incongruous to her low voice. "Olivia," she said. "I'm Olivia."

Her laugh was contagious, and his grin came automatically. "Hey, Olivia. I'm Sam. Nice to meet you."

"You too, Legs," she said, tossing him a quick smirk. "Welcome to Maine."


	2. The House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olivia gets Sam back to her house, and while it looks like something out of a fairy tale, he has his doubts.

The house was a rambling white victorian, set on a high cliff near the sea, and Sam paused a moment to appreciate the view. What he could see of it: the night was dark and foggy, and the house seemed like a glowing beacon rising from the mist. A foghorn sounded nearby.

"The lighthouse," she said. "It's about two hundred yards that way." She pointed, then turned toward the house. "Let's get inside. Cold out."

He managed to make it on his own, but she hovered nearby to catch him if he wobbled. On the deep porch a board creaked under his weight, and the front door loomed big and red. He hesitated a moment, almost involuntarily, but then he shook himself and followed her into the cozy, lived-in interior. The herbal smell he'd detected on her skin was stronger in here. He got the impression of lots of warm wood and wide windows that would give gorgeous views in better weather. She led him back to the kitchen and sat him down at a table.

"Don't move."

A pair of French doors opened into what looked like a greenhouse. She was gone for a few minutes, puttering away in there, and when she came back she set a copper pot onto the stove to boil.

He watched her move around the airy, bright kitchen like a sparrow, darting here and there. Going up on tiptoes to reach something on a high shelf. Her hair, the same color as the pot on the stove, spilled down her back in thick waves that caught the light fiery and golden. When she turned back to him he saw that her eyes were green, like leaves, and she had more freckles than he'd noticed back in the warehouse.

She threw handfuls of fragrant herbs into the pot and stirred. "Something to help with the headache," she said. "I'll take a look at that bite or sting or whatever on the back of your neck. I have a salve that should help."

He blinked. "When you said you didn't have medical supplies with you, I thought you meant, like…aspirin."

"Aspirin's all well and good, but it's basically just willow bark with a bunch of extra crap added." She stirred, sniffed, and tossed in a few more things. "It's all right; I promise I won't poison you."

She spent a moment poking around in a glass-front cabinet before she approached him, a small jar in one hand. "This has an antiseptic in it, so it'll sting a little at first, but then it'll help with the pain. Okay?"

Sam nodded warily and turned the chair around so she could get behind him. Her fingers were soft and warm against his skin as she brushed his hair aside.

"Doesn't look too bad," she said. "A bit red and swollen, but that's to be expected."

He hissed at the ointment's sting, but a moment later it felt soothing and cool. "Wow," he said. "What's in that?"

She chuckled. "Stuff." Her hand lingered at the back of his neck, adjusting his collar and fiddling with his hair. "I have a scalp treatment you might like."

"Is there something wrong with my scalp?"

"No. Not that I can tell, anyway, and your hair looks very healthy. Just thought I'd offer."

He made a low, noncommittal noise. "I'll think about it."

"You do that." She squeezed his shoulder, set the bottle of ointment on the table beside his elbow, and returned to the stove. "Think it's steeped long enough now. I'll add a little honey. For flavor."

She handed him the mug and he gave it a long, dubious look. "Look, no offense, but I don't really know you, and—"

" _And_ I risked my own life to peel you off the concrete back at that warehouse. It would've been a lot easier to just smack you over the head or something when you were unconscious, wouldn't it?" She made a face. "I'm not in the business of poisoning people."

His eyes flicked to her face: the crease between her brows again, her full mouth set in a stern, stubborn line. He had a feeling she might force it down his throat if he didn't drink it voluntarily. "Fine," he said, clearing his throat, and tossed it back. "Agh!"

"It's _hot_ , dumbass!"

"Now you tell me!"

"It was boiling thirty seconds ago!" She ran to the sink and poured him a glass of cool water. "Drink it slowly," she said, holding it out to him. "God, are all hunters as accident prone as you?"

Tears streamed down his reddened cheeks. He inhaled hard breaths of air in an attempt to cool his scalded throat. She rolled her eyes and gestured at him with the glass of water. He took it from her and sipped, as she instructed.

"Don't you know?" he said when he could speak again.

"Know what?"

"About other hunters."

"Hmm." She rubbed a hand against the back of her neck. "We don't get many up this way anymore."

Sam blinked. "Am I the first hunter you've—?"

She scowled and snatched the empty glass out of his hand. "Yes," she said. "What of it?"

He wanted to laugh, but he thought she might actually murder him if he did. Instead he ducked his head to cough. When he glanced up again she was still glaring at him, her brow furrowed and her bright eyes flashing.

"Nothin'," he finally said. "Just before you said—"

"I _know_ what I _said_. And it was true. I _do_ know every hunter in North America. By name. And it's not like you're the first one I've _met_ , just the first one I've, ya know…helped. In an official, lighthouse keeper capacity."

He wasn't entirely sure what to say that would salvage the mess he'd blundered into, but finally he just smiled. "Thanks for the tea. Tasted great."

Her eyes narrowed. He tensed. Then, abruptly, her head fell back as she laughed, the same sweet sound he remembered from the car.

"You're welcome," she said. "Come on; I'll show you where you can crash tonight."

  


Sam slept fitfully, though the bed was comfortable and the sheets smelled softly of lavender and rosemary. He tossed and turned, and strange, phantasmagoric dreams haunted him. He woke several times, sweat-soaked, heart pounding, and stared around the room as though he expected something to jump out at him from some darkened corner.

Something called his name, like a siren. No, it was just the sea crashing on the cliffs. Just the sea.

This house was safe. He knew that. He felt it in his bones.

But still he couldn't shake the feeling that something _wasn't_ safe, that he was missing something important, and the pretty, prickly lighthouse keeper was the key to all of it.

Next morning Sam stumbled bleary-eyed to the bathroom and almost ran right into her. Olivia. The lighthouse keeper. He blinked down at her, befuddled, and she dropped her chin to hide a smile.

"Rough night?" she said.

"Somethin' like that." He scratched his head and tried to smooth his hair with both hands. She watched, clearly amused, but when he caught her at it her eyes flicked away. "Bed was great, though. Thanks."

"Mmhmm. Get cleaned up. I put out fresh towels for you, and you can help yourself to any shampoo and soap you want. I make it all myself. Please don't eat it, no matter how much it smells like mint." She paused. "How do you feel about pancakes?"

"Love 'em," he said, once again confused by her rush of words. But _pancakes_ stuck out, and that seemed to be the important part.

"Great. I'll go make us some."

Neither of them moved. The bathroom door was behind her, so unless he physically picked her up or knocked her over…

He didn't do either one, and she didn't move around him toward the stairs. She had her hair in a braid today, thrown over one shoulder to trail down her chest. He studiously avoided looking down her shirt, even though it would be easy with their height difference. He was sure she wouldn't appreciate it, and he really didn't want to piss off the woman who just offered to make him pancakes.

Their eyes met. He had the sudden, almost irrepressible urge to touch her. Just her cheek or the back of her hand. To see if her skin was as soft as it looked. He knew how her fingers felt, her palms, but that was different.

His gaze traveled over her face to settle on her mouth. It was a beautiful mouth. Full, a little top heavy, and forming a delicate cupid's bow. He had to clench his hands into fists to keep from running his thumb over it.

He stepped back, clearing his throat, and managed an awkward smile. "Shower," he said.

"Right." She laughed, a little brittle, and slipped past him. "Pancakes!"

He listened to her tread on the stairs a moment before he shut the bathroom door behind him. Wow. Smooth. He could almost hear Dean laughing at him in his head.

Sam would have to tell Dean that the lighthouse keeper was most definitely cute.

By the time he got downstairs she had a heap of pancakes on the table, alongside a platter of bacon and a carafe of juice.

"Sorry I took so long," he said. "I couldn't tell if the oatmeal stuff was supposed to be shampoo or soap."

"Shaving cream."

"Huh." He scratched his head. "Oops."

"Don't worry; it's good for your hair, too. I was about to come check on you though."

His mouth fell open at the thought, and when he looked at her again her cheeks were bright red. "I mean—like—knock on the door. Not actually—open it—while you were showering. But after your head injury last night I was worried you might've slipped or something, but I didn't hear a thunk, so…"

She trailed off, flustered, and set a bottle on the table. "Syrup."

He was glad he had a chance to laugh at her for once, though of course he hid it as best he could. Instead he pulled his chair up to the table and the huge plate of food she placed there.

"Coffee?" she said.

"Yeah, please."

She poured a mug for both of them, and for a time they were busy doctoring their coffee and pancakes. They ate in silence. The food was amazing. The syrup was weird.

"Boysenberry," she said. "I make—"

"It yourself," he said with a brief grin. "I'm beginning to recognize a pattern."

She licked some syrup off her fork and reached for a piece of bacon. "It's easier to be as self-sufficient as possible when you're way out here. I have chickens, too."

"Cows?"

"No, no cows," she said, laughing. "Goats, though. Milk for the soap."

His brow furrowed as he tried to remember the route they'd taken from the warehouse last night, and how he and Dean and gotten there in the first place. It was fuzzy; he'd been really out of it on the drive over. "How far are we from town?"

Wiping her mouth with a napkin, she paused to take a long pull of juice. "It's a little more complicated than that. From, say, December to April the road out of here's nearly impassable. Sometimes there are little thaws and I can make it, but a lot of the time it's just me, alone." She hitched a shoulder, her lips curving. "And the light, of course."

"And the goats and chickens."

"Mmhmm, them too."

He pushed a bite of pancake around on his plate. "That must get lonely," he finally said. Maybe that was too personal, off-limits territory. But he was suddenly aware of how _big_ the sea was outside, and how fully the fog shrouded the sturdy house. He'd been here barely twelve hours and he already half felt like they were only two people left on earth.

"A little," she said, her tone wary. "Sometimes. The chickens aren't great conversationalists."

That surprised a laugh out of him. "No, I guess not. I might worry if they were."

"Yeah, me too." She stood and reached for their empty plates, but he stopped her.

"Let me. You cooked."

She hesitated. Then, "We'll do it together. Wash or dry?"

"I'll wash. Is your dish soap homemade too?"

"Duh," she said. Her nose wrinkled. "But I haven't gotten it right yet so I just use the store-bought stuff."

"A chink in the armor," he said.

"Hardly a chink. Barely even a knick."

He added soap to the large farmhouse style sink and tested the water. "Can't make dish soap." He made clicking noises with his tongue as he shook his head. "Not so self-sufficient after all."

She shoved a wave of suds at him and he jumped back with a cry. "Hey!"

"Watch yourself, Chewbacca," she said, her eyes sparkling. "I'm not afraid to fight back."

He pretended to grumble as he took his place at the sink again. "You fight dirty."

"Be careful or I'll go for your kneecaps."

"Yeah, yeah," he mumbled. He was grinning, though, and the quick glances he cut in her direction told him she was, too.

"So listen," she said, "I've got a lot of work to do today. There's a nor'easter headed this way, so I've gotta check the light's generators and put up the storm shutters. The usual. You can have the run of the house. The library's nice; lots of hunter lore; and the fridge is open. I've got beer."

"Do you brew it—"

She held up a finger to cut him off. "It's Heineken."

"I was just wondering if you put lavender in beer."

"Lavender in beer is amazing, I'll have you know. But no, I only brew my own beer in the dead of winter when I don't have any other choice." She cleared her throat and took the plate he offered. "Anyway. As I was saying—"

"I can help."

Her look was pure skepticism. "Last night you could barely walk. Now you can climb ladders in the wind and wrestle with heavy storm shutters?"

"I feel fine. Whatever was in that tea you gave me really did the trick. Besides—I wanna see the light."

She eyed him up and down, but at last she nodded. "Okay. I'll show you what to do when we finish here."

"A nor'easter," he said after a moment. "That's like a storm, right?" He held up a hand at her look. "I'm from Kansas!"

"Yes," she said, relenting, "it's a storm. Just wind and rain this time of year, but wind and snow in the winter. This one's supposed to be a real humdinger."

Something about that struck him funny—maybe the way she said it, like an old-timer contemplating how her joints plagued her in the cold. It was so incongruous to her smooth face and youthful energy that he couldn't help but laugh.

She glowered and snatched the plate from his hand to dry it before she set it in the stack with the others. " _What_ ," she said, her tone angrier than he thought she actually was, "is so goddamn funny?"

He shook his head and wiped his eyes. "Nothing. Just—you. You're really cute."

That brought her up short. He smiled down at her, but she wouldn't meet his eyes. She looked everywhere _but_ at him. Her teeth caught her lower lip and chewed. Red washed her cheeks.

"That's—irrelevant," she said at last.

"Maybe," he said with an easy shrug. "Still true, though."

She ducked her head. Fiddled with the towel she held and swiped at an already dry plate. "Well. Thanks. You're not so bad yourself."

His mouth curved. "You really don't get out much, do you?"

With an exasperated sigh, she threw the towel at him and spun away. "I have shit to do. If you really want to help, shut up and come on."

"Yes ma'am," he said, still grinning from ear to ear.


	3. Shelter from the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A storm's a-comin'.

Outside the wind was already starting to pick up. Olivia pulled a hat down low over her ears and tugged on a pair of work gloves. She tossed another pair to Sam, who nearly bobbled the catch, and with a sheepish look in response to her wry grin he pulled them on.

"Cold out here," he remarked over the hiss of the wind and pounding of the waves.

"Only gonna get colder," she said. "Don't worry; too early for snow."

She gestured for him to follow her to a large work shed, almost more like a small barn, set several yards from the rambling house. "The shutters are all in here. I'm not as worried about the leeward side of the house, but the side facing the cliffs needs to be battened down pretty good," she said.

The door opened on silent hinges and he peered inside. Stacks of what looked like…well. Wooden storm shutters, he reckoned, lined the stone floor.

"Wow. That's a lot of shutters."

She flashed him a quick smile. "It's a lot of windows. We'll start on either end and meet in the middle. Ladder's over there; be careful, though; they're kinda rickety."

That was an understatement, Sam thought as he carried a ladder under one arm and set it against the house. It reached about mid-way up the second story, which was good, but it didn't come close to the third. He pointed as she passed him, but she shook her head.

"We'll do that from the inside," she called.

"The inside," he mumbled. Why couldn't they do the whole damn thing from the inside? Instead his ass was stuck up on a ladder in the middle of a windstorm.

_You did volunteer for this_ , he reminded himself. She had warned him it would be hard work, and dangerous, but he'd insisted. He squinted down the length of the house to where she perched on her own ladder. He couldn't really see her face, but something about the lines of her body spoke of intense concentration.

That seemed like a better idea than bitching about it.

There were latches above and below each window: the top to hang the shutter, the bottom to secure it shut. Obviously the house itself had weathered hundreds of storms like this, so he wasn't worried about that part.

He cast a look back over his shoulder, toward the sea. It was gray and brooding, restless, and clouds gathered in the distance. He wanted to see it closer. The edge of the cliffs. Olivia had said she would take him to the light when they were done here.

Another quick look told him she was on her third window, and Sam had barely finished one with all his woolgathering.

"Get to work, Winchester!" she said. "We don't got all day!"

He waved a hand and picked his way back down the ladder for a second shutter.

If he made it through this alive, his protesting muscles told him, he was going to need something a lot stronger than tea afterwards.

Sam managed to pick up the pace once he fell into a rhythm (and got over his fear of the ladder), and it wasn't long before the back of the house was done. They each took one side, and soon those were finished, too.

"What about the greenhouse?" he said as they carried the ladders back to the shed.

"Might lose a window or two," she said with a frown. "Hopefully not. It's pretty serious glass." She shoved her work gloves in a back pocket and took off her hat to fan herself with it. "Cold as a witch's tit, but all that work gets the blood flowin'."

His mouth quirked as he ducked his head. "I don't really know where that saying comes from," he said. "I've met witches, and they all seemed normal temperature."

"I certainly am."

He blinked at her. She'd said it so offhand he was sure he must've misunderstood her, and now she was heading across the yard toward the wooden walkway that led to the lighthouse.

"You coming?" she called over her shoulder, and he hurried to catch up.

They walked in silence, Sam brooding, her casting him little looks from under the brim of her hat. Finally she sighed.

"I'm a witch, Sam. Not the gross curse-casting kind. More of an…herbal witch, I guess. A good witch."

His expression was dubious, to say the least. "I've never met a good witch, Olivia. No offense."

"None taken, I guess." She frowned and kicked a rock off the walkway. "Hunters hate witches. I know that. I've read the lore and the journals and everything else. But…" Her shoulders lifted and fell in a shrug.

" _But_ you're different. That's what you're trying to say." He stopped and grabbed her arm. Spun her toward him, heedless of the driving wind that had picked up in the last few minutes. "How do I know you didn't cast a spell on _me_? That you didn't slip something in my tea last night?"

"Or your breakfast this morning?" She tried to pull away, but he held on tighter. Her face scrunched. "You're hurting me, Sam."

He let go, but none of the intensity faded from his face as he crowded closer, pressing her back into the wooden guardrail with the sheer force of his anger. "You lied to me, Olivia."

"I fucking well did not!" she said, her own temper catching. "I'm the lighthouse keeper. I take care of hunters—or I would if any ever headed up this way. I didn't _slip you_ anything, you ass! I peeled you off that concrete floor, brought you into my home, fed you—"

"Gave me shelter from the storm," he said, quoting Bob Dylan in a tone of tight fury that brought color to her cheeks and a flash to her bright eyes.

"Exactly. _No_ , I didn't tell you about being a witch because I knew this is how you would react. I don't have a coven or anything. The women in my family have been witches for generations, but it's never been about—" She waved a frustrated hand. "Blood or ritual sacrifice or prayers to almighty Satan!"

He winced at that. _Almighty Satan_. If only she knew.

"It's about herbs and helping people. The sea and the moon and the wind. _Restoring_ natural order, not opposing it. There's more than one source of power, Sam; surely you of all people should know that."

He spun away, hands on his hips and shoulders set. The wind whistled around him, chilling him, but he ignored it.

"I'm here to help you, Sam," she said from behind him. "That's all I want to do. I'll show you my family's Book of Shadows if you want; you can see for yourself that the spells are about healing, not about hurting."

A good witch.

He shook his head.

There was no such thing. Glinda was a story; the Wicked Witch of the West was real.

_Just because you've never met one…_ , his mind whispered, its tone strangely Dean-like.

They hadn't believed in angels (not for _sure_ ) until they met Cas. They saw new things every day, new dangers, new monsters. Rarely new allies.

"I have to get to the light," she said, interrupting his rambling thoughts. "The storm's coming whether you trust me or not, and I'm still the keeper." She pushed past him, her stride determined, and for a long moment he watched her go.

She was right about one thing, as far as he could tell: the storm _was_ coming. He had no car, and they were miles from anywhere. If she'd wanted to hurt him it would've been a lot easier when he was unconscious, or she easily could've slipped something into the herbal concoction she gave him last night.

Unless she had, and it was just slow to act. Or subtle.

He let out a frustrated sigh and followed her. There _was_ something strange here, that much he knew, but for now he thought it was better for both of them if he trusted her. Or at least tried to get along.

She cut him a look as he fell in step beside her. "Done pouting already? That was fast."

His face scrunched. "I wasn't _pouting_ ," he said.

"Mmhmm. Whatever you say, chief."

He stopped her with a hand on her arm, much gentler than before. "Look, Olivia—my brother and I, we've never had very good experience with witches. They're always trying to kill us, or kill someone we care about." His mind flashed briefly to Sarah Blake, and he shook his head to clear it. "I hear that word and I cringe."

"Yeah," she said, "I get it. I know the history. Not your specific history, but just in general. I'm asking you to give me a chance. You don't know me, and I don't know you, but for right now we're in this together. So let's try to trust each other."

He blinked. It had never occurred to him that she might not trust him. "What've I done to make you think you can't trust me?"

She glared at him. "You're like twice my size and apparently pretty pissed about the whole witch thing. You're a hunter. Two minutes ago you looked like you _really_ wanted to hunt me."

His jaw fell open. He snapped it shut again with a shake of his head and focused on her small, furious face. "I wouldn't—I mean—that didn't really—"

"Sure it did," she said. "It's instinct. Hardwired into you. I get it. Sort of. But, Sam, I'm a friend. I'm here to help you."

"You said that before," he mumbled.

"And I _meant_ it. So, please, let's just try, okay? A witch and a hunter. No one kills anyone. Stranger things have happened."

_Instinct_. He didn't want hunting to be his instinct. He didn't want the urge to kill _hardwired into him_. But she was right: when he'd figured out what she meant he'd found himself mentally reaching for his gun, if not physically trying to grab it. He had wanted to kill her. He hadn't wanted to talk it out or hear her explanation; he wanted to put a bullet in her brain.

"We're supposed to help people," he said aloud.

She didn't reply, just watched him with a lifted brow.

"Hunters. Dean and me. We're supposed to kill the bad guys, yeah, but we're supposed to help the good guys. I've been trying…the past few months…trying to get us back on that path. The helping people path."

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Okay then," she said. "Start with me. Help me check the light's gennies, and then help me make us some supper."

Lunchtime had come and gone while they worked, and he hadn't even noticed. His stomach rumbled at the mention of food, and her mouth quirked. She took a step closer and lifted her chin so she could look up into his face.

"I would never hurt you, Sam," she said. "If you don't believe anything else, believe that."

Strangely, somehow, he did. He didn't know why, and it didn't make much sense, but something about the intensity in her bright green eyes made him think she told the truth. She wanted to help him. He just didn't exactly understand _why_.

Was it this, then? The secret he'd sensed since the first moment he saw the house? He couldn't be sure. He glanced over his shoulder, back at the house, and frowned. No lights glowed around the storm shutters they'd fixed to the windows. It looked closed-up and dark, like something was missing.

He looked back at her, and she was still watching him with that earnest, intent expression. _She_ was what was missing. This woman and the house went together, a perfectly matched pair. His eyes drifted to the lighthouse rising over her shoulder.

"I thought you said your family had been lighthouse keepers for generations. Not witches."

She lifted a brow. "The _women_ have been witches and the men have been lighthouse keepers." A brief shrug. "I'm an only child."

"So you're both."

"The times they are a-changin'."

"What's on the third level of your house?"

That took her aback, but only for a moment. "It's where I keep the bodies."

He rolled his eyes. "C'mon. I've met too many people who really _do_ keep bodies in the attic to find that even remotely funny."

"Apologies. I guess you have." She waved a hand back the way they'd come. "It's just an attic, Sam. Attic junk. Dust. Cobwebs. Old furniture. We can go up there and have a look if you want, but it's not that exciting."

"We have to do the windows, right?"

"We do. So you poke around while I storm-proof the place. Poke around the whole house for all I care. I don't have anything to hide from you."

He scowled and shifted his weight. The wind whistled around his ears and he wished he had a hat of his own. "You don't _now_."

She acknowledged his point with a dip of her chin. "I don't now. But I hope you understand why I kept it from you. I was hoping to tell you when you trusted me a little more. When I could say it without you pulling your gun on me."

He didn't mention his instinct to do just that, but judging by the way she looked at him, she knew. "I don't have any reason to trust you, especially not now."

She gave a frustrated sigh and swiped at a lock of hair plastered to one cheek. "You're being an ass, and I don't really have time for it. I already outlined all the reasons you have to trust me, but I get it. You're a hunter." She jabbed him in the shoulder with two fingers. "Goddamn stubborn to your bones, and built not to trust anything or anyone."

He stepped back as she stepped closer, but he felt the wooden railing against his ass and stopped. She went up on her tiptoes so that her nose was almost level with his chin—he got the sense she wished she had a box to stand on—and poked him again, this time in the center of his chest. "Get the fuck over it, hunter. Get over it or get out of my house. I'll give you a ride into town right now if that's what you want."

She was close enough he could smell her, but her usual herbal perfume (or whatever it was) was masked by the scents of wood and smoke, wind and cold. He swallowed hard and rested his hands on her shoulders to gently ease her off her toes and back to her feet. "You've got the light to look after."

"I do," she said, "but that's how much it matters to me. I can't have you under my roof doubting everything I say or do. Skulking around waiting for the chance to—to shoot me or—I don't know. Strangle me in my sleep."

The image horrified him. "I would never—"

"How am I supposed to know?" she cried. "You think I'm going to turn you into a toad!"

He huffed. "Well, no, just—"

"Use you for some terrible blood ritual of evil!" she said. "Because that's what witches _do_ , right? Witches like me!" Her words struck like tiny darts, and he winced from each impact.

"You don't have to take me anywhere," he said, quietly. "You're right, okay? About all of it. My first reaction was to kill you, no questions." He cleared his throat. "I said I don't have any reason to trust you, and I guess maybe that's not…entirely true."

She opened her mouth to reply, but he stopped her.

"I trust you anyway. I don't know why, but I believe you. About all of it. I don't think you want to turn me into a toad or use me for…" He trailed off as he tried to remember her exact words.

"A terrible blood ritual of evil," she said.

"Right, that's it. A terrible blood ritual of evil." His mouth quirked. "Plus the pancakes were really good."

Now it was her turn to roll her eyes. She stepped back, letting his arms drop to his sides again as she freed her shoulders from his grasp. "I should've known. Feed you well and I can get away with murder."

Before he could reply she'd spun away and was headed toward the lighthouse again. He hurried after her, frowning, but when he caught sight of her face he saw she was laughing.

At him.

Again.

He didn't say anything, and neither of them spoke until they stood in front of the lighthouse's maintenance shed. "The generators are inside," she said. "Three of them, gas powered. Basically I just need to make sure they've got enough fuel and nothing looks corroded. You can wait out here; it's kind of tight inside."

She unlocked the padlock and opened the door. He was about to follow her anyway when his phone rang.

"Cell tower," she said, pointing up. "It took a lot of finagling on my dad's part, but it means we always have service out here." She winked at him. "Better get it, chief; don't want big brother to worry."

She disappeared inside the shed and he took several steps down the walkway before he answered. "Dean," he said. "What's up? You find it yet?"

"Nah, fucker's smart." He could hear the Impala's engine in the background, and Dean munched what sounded like a cheeseburger between sentences. "Listen, it'd help a lot if you could find me some more info. Did you get a look at it at all last night?"

Sam frowned and let his eyes roam: trees stunted and twisted by wind surrounded the light's base and blocked his view of the sea. He propped himself against the handrail a moment before he dropped to a crouch to get out of the wind.

"I guess I might have, but I don't remember. It came at me from behind."

Dean grunted. "I just remember the way it smelled," he said. "Like…rotten meat. You know that smell?"

Sam nodded, his face still twisted in a frown. "Carnivore smell," he said. "Like—lions and wolves."

There was a long pause while Dean seemed to be thinking that over. "You think it's eatin' 'em?"

"I don't know. There wasn't any evidence of that."

"On the victims we _found_. What if there are more that it…ate? All the way?"

Sam pressed a hand to his empty stomach and cleared his throat. "I guess that's an idea," he said.

Dean gave a long, frustrated sigh and Sam heard the crinkle of a wrapper being balled up and tossed away. "Okay, little brother. Research mode while you camp out with the pretty girl. We're lookin' for somethin' big, fast, strong, and smelly. May or may not eat its victims, or at least some of them. Has some kind of stinger it uses to incapacitate its prey." A pause. "How's the girl?"

Sam opened his mouth to tell his brother what he'd learned—that the lighthouse keeper was also a witch, but apparently not the evil kind.

Except Dean hated witches…and he didn't really trust Sam's judgment…and he was on a case. He couldn't afford to be distracted worrying about Sam, and he couldn't sacrifice the progress they'd made by turning around to come pick up his little brother mid-hunt.

"She makes really good pancakes," he finally said.

Dean laughed. "Sounds like a keeper!"

"Uh huh," Sam said.

The woman in question emerged from the shed and locked the door behind her. Her hat was clutched in one hand, and strands of hair loosed from her braid danced around her small face. Sam straightened to his full height as she cast him a questioning look. "Listen, Dean, I gotta go. I'll see what I can dig up and call you back tonight, okay?"

"Sounds good. Talk soon."

They both hung up and Sam stowed his phone back in his jacket pocket.

"Everything okay?" Olivia said as he approached her.

"Yeah, I guess. Dean wants me to look into a few things for him, see if I can figure out what it is he's hunting."

"Sure," she said. "We can dive in after dinner." She gestured toward the lighthouse. "Ready for a climb?"

He took the hat from her and set it back on her head. "Lead on," he said.


	4. The Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Olivia climb the lighthouse, and Sam's restlessness grows.

He took a moment to catch his breath; he was in good shape, but that was a lot of stairs. When he lifted his head he found himself breathless all over again. The view was incredible. His jaw fell open as he stared out the windows, toward the sea. It rose in swells that broke against the cliffs in foaming explosions that he could almost _feel_ , despite the distance.

She watched him from the corner of her eye as she checked the light, and after a moment she sidled up next to him. "Worth the climb?" she said, her voice hushed.

"Uh huh," he said with a nod.

Her mouth curved, but she didn't take her eyes away from the view. "You'd think I might get tired of it," she said, tilting her head toward the windows. "It's been the same my whole life. But I never do. Every time I see it, it's like it's the first time all over again." She shook her head. "But not, because it's…"

"Home," he said when she trailed off.

"Yeah." A brief huff of laughter. "Home."

What would it be like to see the same view every day? _This_ view. In the distance clouds piled high, but the sun broke through to glitter off the sea in bright patches. The waves came in, pulled out, came in again. The stunted trees far below tossed in the wind.

Except for the small patches of blue between the clouds, all was gray: the cliffs, the water, the sky.

"Shouldn't there be leaves?" he said.

"Hmm?"

"This's Maine, right? Isn't Maine famous for its fall foliage?"

"Oh." There was a pause. "The wind," she said. "The leaves fall fast here, much faster than inland."

That seemed reasonable enough, so he let it go.

He stood for another few moments before he turned a slow circle, studying the three-sixty view as he went. There wasn't another house or building that he could see, and the view stretched for miles.

"Wow. You really are alone up here."

"Does that bother you?"

He glanced at her, surprised. "Does it bother _you_?"

Her eyes flicked away. Back again. "Didn't we discuss this at breakfast?"

"I thought maybe we were in a more honest place now." He didn't keep the irony out of his voice, and she rolled her eyes.

"Sometimes it bothers me," she finally said. "Most of the time it doesn't."

He tucked his hands in his jacket pockets and watched a bird swoop and dive with the wind currents. His eyes followed it along the edge of the cliffs until it disappeared into a cleft; probably its nest.

"Do you regret bringing me here?"

"To the lighthouse?"

He made an impatient noise. "No, just… _here_. To your house. With you."

She opened her mouth to deliver a quick answer, but then she shut it again and her face creased in thought. "I couldn't've left you there. It was too cold, and you were all alone. What would you've done?"

"I don't know. I kind of have a knack for survival."

"I'm sure you do."

A silence fell. Neither of them was looking out the windows now. The light was fading fast, but he could still see the copper shine of her hair, and her smooth, pale face. She lifted her chin to look him in the eye, and she didn't flinch away when he stepped closer.

"Olivia—"

"No," she said.

His face scrunched and she waved a hand.

"I don't regret bringing you here." Her voice thickened even as she smiled at him. "I will regret it if you shoot me, though."

"I'm not gonna shoot you, Olivia," he said, quietly.

"Good. I think it'd put a damper on our relationship."

Clearing his throat, Sam ducked his head. He wasn't entirely sure what to make of this woman. She lived in a big, rambling house on a cliff miles away from anyone else. She had chickens and goats and made her own soap. She was a witch. And a lighthouse keeper.

And when she smiled just right, Sam thought maybe he saw things he hadn't even _thought_ about since…well, since Amelia, and Jess before her.

"It's not exactly an apple pie life," he said, thinking aloud.

"That's all right," she said without missing a beat. "I'm allergic to apples."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously. An apple a day keeps the redheaded lighthouse keeper witch away." She smoothed a crease from the front of his jacket, her touch easy and light. "Apple pie is overrated in my opinion, but that could just be the allergy talking."

"Don't let my brother hear you say that. He loves pie."

She tilted her head thoughtfully; her eyes stayed steady on his. "Your brother isn't here. I get the feeling that isn't the usual state of things for you two."

"We're better together," he said.

"You'd die for him," she murmured.

"I _have_ died for him. He's died for me." He shrugged. "It's sort of what we do."

"What kind of life is that, Sam? Apple pie might be overrated, but death is…" She lifted her hands helplessly. "It's no way to live."

"We're hunters. I'm a hunter. It's the life."

Some part of him winced as he said it: he'd never wanted this life, but now it was his. Had been ever since he'd heard Dean say _Dad's on a hunting trip and hasn't been home in a few days_. Or maybe since Jess died the same way their mom had, burning on the ceiling.

She turned away to wander toward the window. He could see her reflection in the glass, and her expression was inscrutable. Frustration? Annoyance?

Pity?

"Do you see that?" she said, pointing.

He stepped up next to her and squinted in the direction she indicated. "A boat," he said. "Isn't there a storm coming? That doesn't look like a very big boat."

"It's not. Not for these waters. Usually sailboats stick closer to shore." She glanced at him. "Cliffs don't count as shore."

"There's a storm coming too, right?"

"Yep." She spread her fingers toward the clouds amassing to the south and east. "A humdinger," she said with a faint smile.

He studied the small boat, its hull lifting and falling with the waves. "D'you think…maybe they just don't know what they're doing?"

She shook her head. "Bad currents out there. Riptides. They wouldn't've made it this far if they were an amateur."

She paused, briefly, and when she spoke again her voice was quiet. "Probably went out further than they meant and didn't notice the sky." Her chin tilted toward him and her eyes caught his in the reflection. "Sometimes, no matter how good you are, you don't see the shit coming until it's already hit the fan."

His mouth quirked. "You think that's what we do? Dean and me?"

She smiled, just a little. "I don't know your brother, and I barely know you, but…there's a darkness around you, Sam." At his look she shook her head. "Not _in_ you. Not…the way you're thinking."

"You can read souls now? Or see the future?" he said. The skepticism in his voice echoed louder than the words did.

"No. Not at all. I just…" She turned away again, this time with a restless shrug. "It's just a feeling I get, that's all. My gut."

The sun came out from behind a cloud and the room brightened around them.

"We should go down," she said after a moment. "I'm hungry."

"Can I stay for a few?"

"Sure, if you want. Just don't touch anything."

He snorted. "I'll behave. I promise."

She hesitated, but at last she gave a quick nod. "Okay. Well. I'll…see you inside. Don't wait too long; the storm's coming on fast now." With that she left him alone.

He stood listening to her footfalls on the metal stairs until he couldn't hear them anymore.

_A darkness_ , he thought ruefully. If only she knew how accurate that was. He blamed himself for freeing it, but what else could he've done? Let Dean die? Let the Mark destroy him?

Death was one thing, but what the Mark did to him…

Sam shook his head and peered through the window again. The boat was gone, hopefully back to safer waters than these. To its berth or dock or whatever.

Home.

He did a circuit halfway around. Stopped to stare out at the house. He could see Olivia, a tiny doll figure, making her way across the yard. The wind had picked up; she had her hat off and the tail of her hair tossed like she was an annoyed cat.

The image made him smile.

He didn't want to think about her. Not outside the bounds of her role as lighthouse keeper. He didn't want—

"Sam!"

The voice punctured his thoughts like a bullet, and he spun in a startled circle. The room was empty, of course.

"Dean?" he called.

"Sammy! _Sam_!"

What the fuck? Dean was hundreds of miles away. But the voice…it was unmistakably Dean's, and it was _close_.

Sam shoved the door open and pounded down the metal stairs, taking them much faster than was safe. "Dean!" he cried. His brother didn't answer this time.

He burst out into the windy evening and ran two hands through his hair. "Dean!" he yelled as loud as he could.

"Sam?"

He whirled around to find Olivia staring at him like he'd grown an extra head.

"Sam, what's wrong? I heard yelling."

"I heard my brother," he said. He was panting from his run down the stairs, and maybe a little fear. More than a little. "He was calling me. I swear it was—it was right here!"

"Sam…" She took a tentative step closer. "Dean's not here. He's hundreds of miles away. Are you sure it wasn't just the wind?"

Her words echoed his thoughts so perfectly that he scowled. "It wasn't the wind. I'd know his voice anywhere." He stomped off, toward the cliffs, and she followed behind him. "How do I know?" he said. "How do I know for sure he's not here?"

"You've talked to him!" she cried, her voice nearly drowned out by the sea and the wind. "Sam, come inside. You're acting—" She bit her lip. "You're scaring me."

He just glared at her, and after a moment she made a frustrated gesture at the lighthouse. "Do you want to look around? I'll open the generator room for you. You can tear the house apart. Whatever you want."

He took one long step to her and grabbed her wrist. "Open it," he growled.

Her eyes were huge in a pale face. "Okay. Calm down. Come with me."

He followed her back to the light and watched as she unlocked the small door.

"Be careful in there," she said. "It's tight, like I said."

He gave her a brief nod and went in. The room was full near to bursting with three huge generators. He looked behind them. Between them. He let out a huff. There was nothing in here. No room for anything.

She stuck her head in. "You okay?"

"I swear to God I heard him," he said, joining her outside again.

"Why don't you call him?" she said. "Make sure he's okay. Maybe you _did_ hear him." She shrugged at his look. "It's kind of a weird place sometimes."

Frowning, he fished his phone out of his pocket and turned his back on her. He heard the shuffle of her feet against the wooden walkway as she took a few steps away to give him privacy.

"Dean!" he said when his brother answered.

"Hey, buddy. Got that research for me already? Damn, that was fast."

"No, Dean—listen. Where are you?"

There was a short pause. "Uh, just passed a _Welcome to Pennsylvania_ sign. Why? What's up?"

Sam shook his head and pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead. "Nothing. I guess it's nothing."

"You gonna tell me, or do we have a rousing game of Twenty Questions in our future?"

He sighed. Dean was going to laugh. "I just—I thought I heard you calling me. Like, here. Calling my name."

A long silence fell, and for a moment Sam thought the call had dropped. "Huh," Dean finally said. "That's a little weird."

"Yeah, well." He didn't finish the thought; he didn't need to.

" _Weird_ is sorta our middle name," Dean said.

"Yeah." He heard Dean drumming against the steering wheel.

"You thinkin' another one of those vision things? Only auditory this time?"

That hadn't occurred to him, but now that Dean suggested it it made sense. "That's probably it. But why now? Why just that?"

"Don't know, little brother. You did just get knocked out yesterday; maybe it's somethin' lingering from this thing's venom or poison or whatever."

He turned as he thought it over. Olivia stood under a tree a few yards away, her back to him. He couldn't tell Dean she was a witch; he'd lose his shit. Sam couldn't tell him his doubts, that maybe she'd slipped something in that tea last night, or maybe her intentions weren't as pure as she said.

Except that was ridiculous. _Asked and answered_ , the lawyer part of his brain thought. Another sigh, and at last he said, "Yeah, you're right. I just need to get some rest."

"Exactly! Let the cute lighthouse girl fuss over you some. And do that research."

His mouth curved in a wry grin. "I'm on it. Talk later."

He hung up and stood contemplating Olivia's back for a while. She knew her lore, she said. She was also a witch who knew a thing or two about poisons and potions. She could help him. She _would_ help, if he just asked.

"Olivia?" he said as he approached her.

"Everything okay?" she said.

"Yeah." He tucked his phone away. "We're thinking maybe it was just a lingering effect from the sting."

"Hmmm. Yeah, that's a good thought. Especially combined with the wind and all."

He nodded. "Let's go in," he said. "We can hit the books after we eat. We need to find out what this thing is."

"It's possible its venom lingers in the system," she said as they walked toward the house, this time across the yard rather than via the wooden path. "Who knows what kind of symptoms it could cause."

His forehead scrunched. "You think it could be poisoning me now? Like, still?"

"I don't know," she said. "We _won't_ know until we figure out what it was. Once we do I can probably cook up an antidote." She paused. "Depending."

"On?" he said with a frown.

"Lots of things. The type of creature. The ingredients required." She chewed on her lip thoughtfully. "I make soap and tea, not anti-venom. But I'll do my best."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," he said. "It might be nothing. Or it might work itself out."

She flashed him a smile, bright and dazzling. "Optimism. I like it."

He gave a sheepish grin in return. "Don't get used to it," he said. "I gotta be in the mood."

"I bet I could get you in the mood, big guy," she said, her smile turning mischievous.

He blinked like she'd hit him in the head with a two by four. "Uhhh…"

The sound of her laughter lingered despite the howl of the wind, and, still dazed, he followed her inside.

As the evening wore on Sam grew increasingly restless. He wasn't sure why, but something about the house's isolation and the sound of the wind howling outside was making him stir crazy. The storm hadn't officially started yet, but Olivia assured him it would any time.

Finally he set aside the book he'd been studying and pushed himself to his feet. They were no closer to figuring out what had attacked him than they'd been a few hours ago. Olivia stepped away to make tea, and when she got back and handed him his mug he frowned down into it.

"For fuck's sake, Sam, I'm not trying to poison you!"

"No, it's not that," he said with a shake of his head. "I just…" He sighed. "I feel like I shouldn't leave Dean to go after this thing alone. I mean, you're good with research, right?"

"Mmhmm," she said, sipping her tea. "I know my way around a library."

"Okay. So you could stay here and keep looking, and I could go find Dean."

She lifted a brow and set her mug on a nearby table. Her face was smooth, unreadable, but something in her voice told him she thought he should just calm the hell down. "I could give you the keys to my Jeep if you really want to go."

"Jeep?" he said. "I thought we came here in a Cougar."

"We did," she said. "But that's my summer car. The Jeep is for winter and bad weather." She peeked around him toward a shuttered window. "Bad weather like what's on the way."

He hesitated. "I shouldn't leave you here without your bad-weather car."

"That's chivalrous, Legs, but I can handle myself. Seems like you need it more."

"Are you sure? Don't feel obligated—"

She forestalled him with a lifted hand. "I rarely feel obligated to do anything." Slipping past him, she walked to the foyer and grabbed a keychain off a hook near the door. "Here," she said, tossing the keys to him. "Don't forget to grab your laptop. It's in the hall closet."

He gave her a sharp look, but her expression was guileless. His laptop was here? How was that even possible? His memory of last night was fuzzy, to say the least, but he knew he'd left his computer in the car. Why the hell would he have brought it with him?

Maybe…maybe Dean left it before he took off. In case Sam needed to do research. That was probably it. Weird that Dean would think of something like that when he was in such a hurry, but Sam wasn't going to complain.

"Great," he said, trying to hide his confusion. "Thanks for taking care of it."

"Sure. I figured it was kind of important." She pointed to one of the keys on the ring. "That one opens the padlock on the garage. The Jeep's inside. I keep the battery charged and the gas tank full, so you should be fine. There're first aid and emergency kits in the very back in case, I don't know. You get stuck or something."

His brow furrowed. "Why would I get stuck?"

She hitched a shoulder. "Probably won't. I'm just saying." Her smile was wry. "It's good to be prepared."

He retrieved his laptop bag from the closet, along with his jacket, and stood at the door for an awkward moment. "You could come with me," he finally said.

"That's…" She seemed to search for the right word. "Kind," she decided, "but I belong here. Especially with a storm coming."

"Right. Gotta keep the light."

"Yep," she said.

They watched each other for several long seconds. Neither of them knew what to say. His departure was so abrupt and unexpected, and he thought maybe she worried he still didn't trust her.

Maybe he didn't, but that wasn't really why he was leaving. He just felt…needed. Elsewhere. Like something or someone was calling him, dragging him away from the cozy house on the lonely cliff. Away from the puzzling, intriguing young woman who lived there.

Maybe it was Dean. Maybe it was God. Or Sam's imagination, or a by-product of the venom he'd been injected with last night.

He didn't know, but he _did_ know he had to try. He would go crazy if he didn't.

"It's not because of you," he blurted.

"Okay," she said. He waited for her to continue, but she didn't.

"I just mean—if it were just you—" He ducked his head. "If it were just you and me, I'd stay."

Her mouth curved in an enigmatic smile. "Would you, Sam? It's a lonely spot. Quiet. Boring, some might say."

"My _life_ is a lonely spot," he said.

"There might be an old MCR CD under the seat," she said. "Just for you, Mr. Emo."

He snorted out a laugh. "You're kind of a smartass, you know?"

"So I've been told."

There didn't seem to be much more to say. He wanted…he wasn't sure what he wanted, but he knew if he were going to go, he needed to leave now. He turned to open the door, then twisted back to smile at her. "Thanks, Olivia. For everything. I mean it."

She lifted her hands in a graceful shrug. "It's my job," she said. "And Sam?" Her face scrunched. "Be careful, okay? This storm is no joke."

He opened his mouth to say something more, but he wasn't sure what. Finally he just nodded and stepped out onto the porch. The garage was a few yards away; luckily the rain hadn't started yet, but the wind was stronger than ever. He glanced back once to see her silhouetted in the doorway, watching him. He lifted a hand in farewell, and she acknowledged it with a wave of her own.

After that he figured he might never see her again.


	5. The Woods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam leaves the house, only to be stymied when the storm finally hits.

She'd left the porch light on. Had she known he'd be back?

Probably not. She just had an affinity with guiding lights in the dark.

The lighthouse had helped him, in the end, and without it he was sure he would've blundered around in the woods blindly. Maybe even frozen to death, because with the rain the temperature had dropped sharply. He was soaked to the skin and shivering. He couldn't feel his fingers or his toes.

Sam stumbled up onto the porch and banged on the door as hard as he could. Light seeped around the shutter over the sitting room window. She was still awake. As long as she didn't shoot him (thinking he was a prowler or something, though how often did prowlers knock on the door?) he should be okay.

The door opened a crack, then flew wide. "Sam?" she said, sounding both shocked and horrified. "I didn't hear the Jeep."

"I d-d-didn't h-h-have it," he said through chattering teeth.

She looked around him at the empty driveway, then back at him. "Jesus Christ, what the fuck did you do? Get in here! You're completely soaked." She grabbed his hand and dragged him inside before shutting and locking the door behind him.

"Upstairs," she said. "Into a hot bath."

He followed her with his arms wrapped around his torso and his head bowed. In the bathroom she started the tub, setting the water to a sort of lukewarm, and turned to him again. "Strip," she said.

He blinked at her, uncomprehending.

"You have to get out of those wet clothes, and it's not like you can get in the bath fully dressed."

"Oh," he said. His jacket was easy enough, but his numb fingers fumbled at the buttons on his shirt. The fabric was heavy with water and uncooperative.

She sighed. "Okay," she said. "It's okay. Let me." She gently pushed his hands away and dealt with his shirt in a detached, businesslike way. Next she helped him with his boots, then his jeans. When he was stripped down to just his boxers she turned the water off and pointed at the tub.

"Don't drown," she said. "I'm going downstairs to make you some tea. Once the water gets cold, drain and refill. Got it?"

He gave a silent nod and climbed into the tub. It was a cast iron clawfoot model, and deep. Still he had to bend his legs high to fit, and she fought back a smile.

"As much of your torso as possible," she told him. "Gotta warm up that core." She started for the door. "Don't drown," she said again before she left.

"N-n-not gonna drown," he muttered. The chattering was less, and the warm water soothed his various aches and pains. He tried to organize his memory of what happened between driving away from the house and finally catching sight of the porch light again, but he wasn't sure he could. His brain felt sluggish and frozen.

He pulled the plug to drain the water and watched it whirlpool from the tub. He still sat like that, staring, when she returned.

"Sam!" she said, like it wasn't the first time.

He shook himself and looked up at her, his expression puzzled. "What happened?" he said.

"Good damn question. Here, put the plug back in." She started the water, hotter this time, and pressed his shoulder so he leaned back. "Don't spill," she said as she handed him a steaming mug.

He took a careful sip, grimaced, and managed a weak smile for her. She perched on the closed lid of the toilet and watched him as he soaked.

"What happened out there, Sam? You've been gone hours."

He shook his head and drank some more tea. "I'm not sure. It was…" He cleared his throat. "The rain. It just… _started_. One minute nothing, then suddenly…"

_A deluge. That was the first word that popped into Sam's head as the rain started. It didn't drizzle first: it went from dry and windy to sheets of whipping water that rattled on the car's roof so loudly he thought there might be hail mixed in._

_He set the windshield wipers as high as they would go, but they were virtually useless. The rain was just too strong, and the road, pitted and potholed as it was, wasn't up to the weather, either. He sloshed along as well as he could, but once he hit a hill he knew it was hopeless: the water took the path of least resistance, and that wasn't the woods on either side. The road had been turned into a goddamn waterfall, and Sam knew he wasn't going anywhere until the rain let up a bit._

_Cursing, he pulled over to wait it out. Surely it couldn't last long. Not raining this hard._

_He turned off the headlights and wipers but left the engine running to keep warm._

_Sam must have fallen asleep (somehow, despite the cacophony outside), because he was jerked awake by the cough and splutter of the Jeep's engine. He knew Olivia kept it in pristine condition—like she did everything she relied on—and the tank had been full when he set out from the house._

_As he watched, all the instruments went dark. No speedometer, no odometer. He tried to turn on the headlights but nothing happened. He hit the button for the radio, but it was silent and unresponsive._

_"Fuck!" he cried as the engine sputtered again. The fucking alternator. Had to be. How the hell did Olivia's bad-weather car have a bad alternator?_

_The engine gave a few more fitful puffs and grumps before it died._

_Sam turned the key, but of course nothing happened. He pumped the gas. Slapped the steering wheel._

_The Jeep remained stubbornly unresponsive. Outside the storm raged, and inside it was already getting cold._

_She had said there was an emergency kit in the very back. Nothing that would help the alternator, certainly, but maybe a blanket. Or some flares._

_Flares. Like anyone would be on this godforsaken road to see them._

_He put the seat all the way back and crawled into the backseat, then stretched over it to search the cargo area. Sure enough, an emergency kit, complete with waterproof matches, a flashlight, flares, and a blanket, among several other things._

_He hauled the kit back to the front and pulled the blanket out to wrap himself in it. How had it gotten so cold so fast? How long had he slept? He had no idea what time he'd left the house, or when he'd stopped. The rain carried on, though perhaps not as hard as before. He pulled his phone from his pocket to find it dead. Of course; he'd meant to charge it once they got inside for dinner, but it had completely slipped his mind._

_How far had he come? A few miles. Five at the absolute most. All he had to do to get back was follow the road._

_He snorted._

_Right. Follow a flooded road in the pitch black dark and pouring rain. Wonderful plan._

_He searched the emergency kit, but there was no poncho. The flashlight worked when he pushed the button, and there were extra batteries. There was a compass, too, and the flares._

_For a long time he sat staring at the kit's contents, his face contorted in a frown. Who would find him if he stayed here? Olivia thought he was long gone. No one had any reason to use this road; it only lead to the lighthouse. He couldn't call for help, and between the weather and the isolation the flares were virtually useless._

_He had to walk back. It was his only choice._

_He could wear the blanket as a sort of cape, maybe. It would help keep the rain off and keep him warmer. Even if he'd come five miles, and considering the weather, it shouldn't take him any more than two hours to walk back. An hour and a half, really. He'd have the compass and the flashlight._

_With a resigned sigh, Sam set about preparing for his cold, wet walk._

"After that it gets real fuzzy," he said.

"You don't have a flashlight. Or the blanket from the kit."

"I don't have any of it. I brought the extra batteries and the flares, too."

She pressed a hand to his forehead. "I can't tell if you have a fever or not. Your body temperature's still all out of whack."

He frowned down into his mug, just like he'd done so many hours ago, before he'd left on his ill-fated trek. "I just remember the woods. It was muddy. I guess maybe I left the road because I thought the trees would protect me from the rain a little? I don't know."

"All right," she said, her voice gentle. "It's okay, Sam. You're here now. Whatever happened, you're safe now."

He looked at her, his expression bleak. "Am I? I feel like I'm losing my mind. Hallucinations, memory gaps…what the hell is going on?"

"The good news is I might have some small idea about that. Let's get you out of the tub and in front of a fire before we get into it."

He squirmed a bit, suddenly very aware he was wearing only his underpants. "I, um…clothes…?"

She smiled and patted his shoulder. "Stay put. I'll put your stuff in the wash and find you something to wear."

"I don't think your clothes are gonna fit me," he said.

"Doubtful. Good thing I still have a lot of my dad's old stuff in the attic."

He sat in the cooling tub until she returned with an armload of clothes and dropped them on the bathroom counter.

"They smell a little like mothballs," she said with a frown, "but it's better than naked, I guess." She looked away, but he caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror: she was blushing. Cute.

"Anyway, um. Do you need help getting out of the tub?"

"No," he said after a moment. "I think I'm okay."

"I'll head downstairs then. Get a fire going. Yell if you need anything."

"Sure," he said to her back as she made a hasty exit. For a while he didn't move. He'd told her he could get out on his own, but that was mostly to spare them further embarrassment. Honestly he wasn't one hundred percent sure he could.

Somehow he managed to scramble to his feet. When he bent to pull the plug a wave of dizziness hit and he had to brace himself against the tile wall until it passed. The porcelain was cool against his forehead and it steadied him.

A deep breath and he climbed out of the high tub. Getting dressed was a challenge. Luckily she'd brought simple things, no buttons. The flannel pants were way too big at the waist, and the t-shirt hung off his shoulders (her dad must've been a big man), but the socks felt amazing. He gripped the pants to hold them up and shuffled downstairs to find her.

"'Livia?" he said.

She knelt in front of the fireplace, feeding kindling into the small blaze she had going. She twisted to face him and smiled. "A little big."

"Yeah," he said. "Not sure these pants are gonna stay up on their own."

Clearing her throat, she stood and dusted her hands off before digging through a drawer in a Hepplewhite chest against the wall. "I don't want to sew you into them," she said. "That might be a little permanent. But I can pin them so they at least don't fall down."

She knelt in front of him, the line of concentration between her brows, and rested a hand on his hip, above the pants' low waist. Her palm was soft, fingers warm, the touch light, like a whisper. He shivered and she cut him a look.

"I won't stick you," she said. "Promise."

"I trust you," he said, meeting her bright eyes and offering a smile.

It didn't take long: a few strategically placed safety pins and he could let go without worrying about flashing her. He offered a hand to pull her to her feet, and she shooed him to the couch.

"Sit," she said. "I got you some blankets. Let me finish with this fire and I'll get you a hot water bottle."

Sam couldn't remember the last time he'd been fussed over like this. It was…disconcerting. In a way. "You don't have to go to any trouble," he said.

"It's my job, Sam. I told you I'd take care of you, remember?" She dropped to her knees to toss a log on the fire. "If I'd gone with you, or stopped you from leaving…"

"It's not your fault. If you'd tried to stop me I would've…I don't know. Gone anyway," he finished, lamely.

"Hmm. You do seem the stubborn type."

"Runs in my family," he muttered. He settled down on the couch with one blanket around his shoulders and the other draped over his lap. She disappeared for a bit and came back with another mug of tea and the promised hot water bottle.

With a sigh she settled on the floor, her back against the couch. Her hair glowed like copper in the firelight, and he gripped his mug to resist the urge to touch her.

The silence between them stretched like a lazy cat. He sipped his tea. She watched the fire while he watched her. She wore fuzzy blue socks and pajama pants with cartoon cows jumping over cartoon moons. Her hair was loose for the first time since he met her. He wondered if it were as silky as it looked.

Finally she stirred, interrupting his wandering thoughts. "I almost forgot about the thing."

"The thing?" he said, blankly.

She reached for a thick book on the coffee table and dragged it into her lap. "The monster." Yawning, she flipped to the page she'd marked. "Sorry. I was half asleep when you knocked."

He shifted to get a better view of the book, but she boosted herself up onto the sofa next to him. A clock in the corner ticked, and he wondered what time it was.

"It's nearly three-thirty," she said, reading his expression.

"In the morning?!"

Her mouth quirked. "Uh huh."

He scrubbed a hand through his hair and down his face. "What time did I leave here?"

"Eight-thirty? Nine? Something like that."

"Holy shit," he said. Dazed, he let his head fall back so he stared at the beamed ceiling. "Holy shit," he repeated.

"Like I said: you were gone hours. How far did you get before the rain started?"

"Uh…I don't know, really…maybe five miles?"

She touched his shoulder to bring his eyes back to hers. "It took you six hours to drive five miles and walk back? Sam—"

"I know. That doesn't make any sense." He grimaced. "Maybe I was abducted by aliens."

"Stranger things have happened," she said, mildly.

He dismissed the idea with a brief grimace. "Aliens are actually faeries. They adapt to changing pop culture norms, so once all the alien abduction stories started, they changed their MO. Or, well, one time what sounded like an alien abduction was actually a trickster. An angel, really, but he was sort of posing as a trickster and—"

He looked up to find her staring at him, wide-eyed.

"Dean and I've had some weird cases over the years," he admitted.

"Do you think you were abducted by faeries?" she said with, to her credit, only a trace of amusement.

He scowled at her. "This isn't funny, Olivia. Faeries are no joke!"

"Of course not," she said. Her lips twitched and she ducked her head toward the book. "I would never make a joke about faeries."

He gave an exasperated sigh. "Just show me what you've got."

"Ah, hum. Right. The—well. It's sort of complicated." She turned the book so he could see and pointed at the picture.

He frowned. "A manticore? Aren't they, like, Greek legends or something?"

"Persian, actually," she said. "Like the Persian version of an Egyptian sphinx. They have the head, and sometimes the arms and shoulders, of a man, the body of a lion, and—"

"A scorpion tail," he said. "To sting and disable their prey. Huh."

"Exactly. Sometimes they have wings or horns, and they have three rows of sharp teeth. The better to eat you up with, my dear."

"It says here they devour their prey whole. Bones and all." He grimaced. "Real considerate of it, but we found pieces of the victims. That's how we knew there was something to hunt in the first place."

"True, so I was thinking a couple of different things." At his look she took a deep breath and plunged in. "One, maybe it was young? Like, still learning. Who knows what a _baby_ manticore is like. Maybe they can't eat the whole thing."

"And two?"

"Well…things've been sorta…weird the last few months. I follow the press, you know, weird news and such, and it's like…I don't know. Monsters gone wild or some shit. Hunters are out there chattering about things I've never even _heard_ of before."

He shifted uncomfortably and shut the book. "So you think maybe the manticore is acting unusual because everything else in the monster world is?"

"It's an idea," she said.

He didn't want to tell her about the Darkness. That "monsters gone wild" as she'd put it was _his_ fault, his, and to a lesser extent, Dean's. He decided to change the subject.

"What does the book say about its venom? Is there an antidote?"

"Ah…that's where things get a little tricky." She gestured toward the wall of books. "We have a pretty good indexing system, and I've only found two mentions of manticores beyond mythology books like this one. One was in a hunter's journal; almost two hundred years old, and luckily translated from the Persian."

"Anything helpful?"

She shook her head. "Not really. Apparently it was terrorizing local villages, carrying people off in the night and such. The hunter led a mob to track it down. Over half of them were killed before someone got a lucky shot in."

"Jesus," he said. "What about the second one?"

"Even less helpful. The hunter suspected a manticore, but he never found solid proof. Then the journal just kinda…ends."

Sam almost laughed. "Think he found that proof?"

"Uh huh. In some manticore's tummy. Anyway," she said with a flick of her fingers, "nothing at all about the components of the venom or a possible antidote. It just says it's a paralytic."

"So nothing about hallucinations."

"Not that I could find. We'll keep looking," she said. "I'm not giving up on it."

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and scrubbed at his face. "Maybe I've just been doing this too long."

"What? Hunting?"

"Hunting. Living."

She winced. "Don't say that."

"Why not?" He tilted his chin toward her. "I should've died years ago. I _did_ die. Have died. Someone's always bringing me back."

A brief hesitation before she rested her hand on the curved bow of his spine. "Things happen for a reason, Sam. I know that's cliché, but it's something I truly believe. If you didn't have things left to do here, no one would have brought you back. It wouldn't have happened."

His face was bleak as he sat up. "I'm not sure I believe that, Olivia," he said. "I don't think I believe in fate or destiny or some…invisible hand guiding the universe. It was my fate to be Lucifer's vessel. Dean's to be Michael's. We were supposed to fight and end the world."

She tilted her head, studying him so intently he felt it like a physical touch. "What did you do?"

"Invited Lucifer in," he said, shortly, "and jumped into Hell with him strapped to my back."

"It's all about free will. We are the choices we make. I don't believe that our paths are pre-determined."

His mouth lifted at one corner, the dimple appearing in his cheek. "Now that's a philosophy I can get behind."

She opened her mouth to reply, but instead it turned into a yawn that she smothered with her hand. "Oh God I'm so sorry!"

"It's okay. It's almost four in the morning."

"Long day," she said.

He snorted. "Fucking tell me about it."

The silence suddenly turned awkward. She fidgeted. Set the book back on the coffee table and fluffed a throw pillow at the end of the couch.

"I guess we should probably go to bed," she said. Her eyes widened. "I mean—you to your bed in your room, and me to my bed in my room. Um. For sleep."

He chuckled. "I knew what you meant."

"Of course you did," she said with a sigh. She stood and grabbed his empty mug from the table. "I'm going up. Take your time, but don't stay up too late. You need some rest."

"I'll be right behind you," he assured her.

She watched him for another few seconds before she spun on her heel and disappeared into the kitchen. He fell against the back of the couch with a long sigh.

What the hell was he doing? There was no room for him in her life. Her house. She was self-contained here, and he was…like a goddamn wrecking ball. Dangerous and deadly and created for destruction.

At least that was how he felt sometimes. She'd probably make fun of him for it, loan him another emo rock album while smiling that little Mona Lisa smile.

Tomorrow they could call a tow truck, get the Jeep taken in somewhere to fix the alternator. Then he'd call Dean and either offer to meet him somewhere, or ask him to come pick him up. He shouldn't be here. The instinct that had sent him away in the first place, while poorly timed, had been smart.

He would go before he got her killed or destroyed her life like he did everyone else's.

He would go before she got any deeper under his skin, because as it was now he wasn't sure if he'd ever respond to the scent of mint and rosemary the same way again.


	6. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam goes home.

Sam was exhausted, but sleep was a long time coming. The wind howled around the house like a living thing. He swore more than once he heard Dean's voice again, calling his name.

"Just the wind," he whispered. "The rain."

Whatever had happened to him out in those woods had left him shaken, both physically and mentally, and all he wanted now was a bit of rest. To close his eyes and _forget_ for a time.

There was a soft knock on his door, and Olivia pushed it open. "Are you asleep?" she whispered.

"No," he said. "Can't."

"Me neither," she said with a rueful smile. "Mind if I…?"

"Yeah, come on." He scooted over in the Queen size bed to give her some space. She shut the door behind her and tiptoed across the room to crawl in next to him.

"Is this weird?" she murmured.

"No," he said again. "I was kind of hoping…" He trailed off. The window was shuttered, of course, but he swore he could still see her: the curve of her jaw; the line of her nose; her bright eyes.

"Hoping what, Sam?" she said. She reached out in the dark and touched his face. Traced the spots where his dimples showed when he smiled.

"That you'd knock on my door."

Her hand dropped to land between them. "Really? Earlier you were about to die trying to get away from me."

He grunted. "I told you that wasn't about you. It was…the storm, I guess."

"Made you restless," she said.

" _Restless_." Their eyes met and a smile flickered across his face. "That's a word for it."

"A euphemism?" she said, amused.

"Somethin' like that."

Even the storm seemed to be holding its breath as he waited to find out what she would do next. The space between them was charged, electric, and he wanted to touch her so bad it hurt.

"Now is when you kiss me, Legs," she said, low and wry.

With a muttered curse he tangled a hand in her hair—soft and cool, some part of him noted—and tugged her to him. He hesitated a moment, his mouth hovering over hers. He could smell her breath, minty like the tea they'd been drinking. He pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth. The tip of her nose. And, finally, her full lips.

She sighed into his mouth, so sweetly, and he couldn't hold back a quiet groan. "Olivia," he breathed. Her name sounded like a song.

"Sam," she whispered. "Don't stop. More."

The kisses turned hungry, desperate, and he stroked a hand down her side. She wiggled closer, chanting his name, and somehow her shirt was gone. His too. Skin against skin, sweaty and slippery and hot.

He bit the tender skin of her neck. Sucked marks onto her breasts. Her fingers combed through his hair and trailed down the back of his neck and he rolled them over so that he was on top of her.

"Yes," she said, nearly a moan. "Yes, please."

He tore her underwear away—when and how she'd lost her cartoon cow PJs he had no idea—and she shoved at the too-big waist of the pants she'd loaned him. Her short nails scraped over his hipbones, eliciting a rough moan, and when he finally thrust into her it felt like coming home.

He jerked awake, cursing, hard and aching and embarrassed, and laid for a long time struggling to catch his breath. The dream had been so vivid he swore he could still smell mint on the pillow next to him. Feel her skin on his and taste her sweet mouth.

He shuddered. That was _not_ helping the situation in his pants.

Light seeped around the shutters, and a quick check of the clock told him it was nearly ten in the morning.

So he'd slept after all.

And dreamt.

A knock at the door nearly made him fall out of the bed. Panicked, he sat up and wadded the covers into his lap.

"Y-eah?" His voice cracked in the middle of the word, so he cleared his throat and tried again. "Yeah, come in!"

Olivia poked her head around the door. "You okay?" she said.

"Um, yeah. Fine. Just fine. You?"

She smiled, clearly confused by his odd behavior. "Right as rain. I was just wondering if you were hungry."

His stomach rumbled in reply and she laughed. "Okay then. Soup and grilled cheese? For some reason it feels like a soup and grilled cheese sorta day."

"Soup and grilled cheese would be great. Lemme hit the shower and I'll be right down."

"Sure. I left your clothes in the bathroom for you. Your boots are still drying, but everything else came through just fine." She made a face. "Except your phone. I think you're gonna need a new one."

"I better call Dean. If he can't get hold of me he'll worry."

"You need to tell him about the manticore, too."

"Not sure he should be hunting something like that on his own." Talk of the manticore had worked wonders for his penis. He pushed the covers back and climbed out of bed. "I'll tell him to come get me and we can go after it together."

"Or," she said, moving out into the hall with him trailing after her, "you could find out where he is and I could take you. That way he wouldn't lose its trail."

"You can leave the light that long?"

She considered. "As long as there's no storm on it should be fine. It runs by computers anyway; I'm just here to make sure nothing comes unplugged."

"Yeah," he said. "That'd be great. I mean, if it's not an imposition." It would give him an excuse to spend more time with her, anyway. Sexy dreams notwithstanding, he wanted to get to know her better. She puzzled him, and he wanted to figure her out.

"No imposition," she said. "I just have to get a few things squared away first. Take your shower and come downstairs. We'll work out the details then." She stopped at the top of the stairs and looked back at him. "Oh and Sam—"

Suddenly her eyes went huge and she reached for him. "Sam!" she cried.

"What?" he tried to say. Nothing happened when he opened his mouth.

"Sam!" She rushed toward him just as he toppled backwards. He lifted a hand, but her fingers seemed to slip through his like smoke. His head hit the hardwood floor with a _crack_ he heard but didn't feel.

"Liv-ia?" he managed to croak.

"Sam! Oh my God, Sammy, can you hear me? Sammy!"

_I can hear you. Of course I can hear you._ Did he speak the words or just think them? He couldn't tell. Everything around him had gone black. Was he dying? Again?

"Sammy, wake up! You gotta wake up!"

Her voice changed. Became deeper and rougher. The hand on his face wasn't soft, but calloused and familiar. He could smell blood and gunpowder, not rosemary and mint.

"Goddammit, Sammy, wake the hell up!"

A sharp smack across his face that made his ears ring. He wanted to open his eyes, but he felt like he was wrapped in cotton. It was thick and suffocating, and just when he decided to forget it and let the dark take him, something cold and wet hit him in the face.

He came to coughing and spluttering, and Dean's worried, angry face hovered above him. "You scared the hell out of me!" Dean said. "Wake up!"

"M'wake!" he said. "Stop yelling!"

"Can you sit up?"

He took stock for a moment. Everything hurt, even his hair. "Dunno," he said. "Not— _ugh_ —not by m'self."

Dean helped him, and Sam grabbed his aching head with both hands to keep it from spinning away. "What—the fuck…?" he said through a groan.

"It got you," Dean said. "Stung you right in the neck. You went down like sack of potatoes and it nearly took me out. Luckily I guess it used all its poison on you, because when it stung me it just hurt like a son of a bitch without actually doing anything."

"Where is it?" The headache pounded like a drum, but slowly the world was solidifying around him.

Dean nodded across the room. "Took my full magazine and a machete, but I got it. Any idea what it is?"

Sam squinted. "A manticore, I think."

"What the fuck's a manticore?"  
"I'll explain later." He held out his arm and Dean helped him off the floor. Sam looked around. They were in the warehouse where he'd first been stung. Where he'd met—

"Where's Olivia?" he said.

Dean's face scrunched. "Who?"

"The—the lighthouse keeper. Olivia!"

"Lighthouse—? Oh geez, Sammy, I was just yankin' your chain. Lighthouses are all automated these days. I don't think there are any lighthouse keepers anymore."

Sam stared at him. "But…hunter waypoints…?"

Dean sighed. "Christ, if I'd known you were gonna take it so seriously—look, buddy, I'm sorry. It was an old story Bobby told me once, but it's sort of like…a hunter urban legend. Ain't real, far as I can tell."

"No," he said. "That can't—she was—I _touched_ her. She smelled like…like mint and rosemary. She—she made her own soap. She had goats!"

"Sounds like one humdinger of a dream," Dean said. He tried to hide his concern as he gripped his brother's arm. "Let's get you somewhere you can rest. Sleep this poison off."

Sam leaned on him as they made their way to the car. "Are you telling me you were having a sex dream while I was killin' a fuckin' manticore and tryin' to wake you up?"

"No," Sam mumbled. "It wasn't like that."

"Uh huh. Whatever you say, pal." He opened the passenger side and helped Sam in. "Watch the head."

He shut the door, walked around the car, and climbed in behind the wheel before he paused. "You know, if gettin' stung by a manticore makes you have hot dreams about cute lighthouse keepers—"

"Dean!" He took a long pull from the bottle of water Dean fished out of the cooler for him. "I swear it wasn't a dream. It felt so real. Everything. She made me pancakes. I nearly froze in the rain and she—she got me some of her dad's old clothes and a hot water bottle and…"

He trailed off, realizing then how crazy he sounded. "How long was I out?" he finally said, his voice low and tired.

"Half an hour?" Dean said. "Forty-five minutes? Not too long." He put the car in gear and backed out. "I guess dream-Sam works fast."

Sam gritted his teeth and said nothing. Olivia. She'd felt so _real_. The whole thing had: the light, the house, the howling wind and cold rain. Her warm, soft laugh and the coppery gleam of her hair in firelight.

He stared out the window. His reflection flickered ghost-like in the glass.

No more real than Olivia had been.

_A dream_ , he thought. Of course it was. What in his life had been that purely _good_ and not, somehow, ruined? Even if it had been real, something would have fucked it all up. The life. Angels or demons or some other monster.

Dean shot him a brief glance. "You okay?"

"Head hurts," he said. "Otherwise—yeah, I guess."

He nodded. "Nothin' some sleep and a beer won't fix. Tomorrow you'll be right as rain."

_Right as rain_. The words made him wince, but he tried to hide it.

"Sure, Dean," he said. "Right as rain."

Dean hauled him out of bed early the next morning and practically shoved him into the shower. "Get dressed!" he called over the sound of the water. "We've got somewhere to be!"

"I thought we solved the case," Sam grumbled as he shampooed his hair.

"We did. This ain't about a case. Just get dressed and meet me at the car."

Sam took his time in the shower. The hot water felt amazing, soothing away his lingering aches. The soap was standard-issue motel crap. He had a sudden longing for honey and ginger, made with goats' milk. Maybe he could buy some somewhere. Dean would laugh at him, but he didn't get it. He couldn't. It wasn't just soap.

It was her. The dream of her. Homemade soap and constant mugs of tea and a hot water bottle. Pancakes with bacon and a bright, homey kitchen.

"A good witch," he whispered into the water.

_It's about herbs and helping people_ , he heard her say. _The sea and the moon and the wind._

The voice sounded so real, so close, Sam had to shake himself like a dog, water flying everywhere, to clear his head. He had to stop thinking about her. It was just a dream, and the sooner he accepted that the sooner he could get back to his real life.

He shut the water off and climbed out; scrubbed at his hair with a towel and got dressed much faster than he'd showered. Dean was waiting for him. Maybe they could go for pancakes.

In the car Dean was in a ridiculously happy mood, humming and drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. Sam felt sick and hungover, and he almost snapped at his brother to shut the hell up, but these days Dean was so rarely in a good mood he just gritted his teeth and bore it. He was having second thoughts about the pancakes, though.

"Have I got a surprise for you, Sammy! You're gonna shit!"

Sam made a face. "I hope not. I just washed these jeans."

"Ha!" Dean said, smacking Sam on the shoulder. "Good one, little brother!"

Sam rolled his eyes and leaned back against the seat. "Just wake me up when we get there."

"Sure thing. You rest. Trust me: it's an awesome surprise."

"I trust you," he mumbled as sleep closed in despite all the noise. "Course I trust you."

It seemed like only an instant later Dean was shaking him awake for the second time that morning. "We're here. Wake up!"

Sleep released him slowly, and he felt like it left cobwebs across his face and in his mind. "Where's here?" he mumbled, scrubbing at his skin with both hands.

"That's the surprise. C'mon, get outta the car."

Dean took a step back to give his brother room, and for a moment Sam had to brace a hand against the Impala's roof. Then he straightened and managed a half-smile for the beaming Dean.

Dean stepped aside and gestured toward the quaint, cedar-shingled building. "Get a load of that, Sammy!"

Sam frowned. "What? Looks like a bakery."

A huff of impatience. "Yeah, a bakery. But look at the _sign_."

Face still scrunched with consternation, Sam's tired eyes scanned the store's homey façade. Finally he saw it, and his breath hitched. "Dean…"

"I know, I know, not the same thing, but I figured it had to be some sort of omen or something." He stood next to Sam, grinning his damn face off, and read the name aloud: "The Lighthouse Keeper." He slapped Sam on the back, hard enough to make him stumble. "A port in the storm, eh, Sammy?"

A cold sweat broke out on Sam's brow, and his stomach churned and grumbled. "Yeah," he managed to mutter. "Looks good."

"Let's go inside and see what they got. I'd kill somebody for a blueberry muffin."

A bell tinkled as they pushed open the door. The interior was cozy and warm, with an eclectic mix of furniture, tables, and lighting fixtures. There were wingback chairs. Comfy sofas. Ordinary cafe tables. Even a bentwood rocker set near the window to enjoy the view outside.

A woman worked behind the counter. Her back was to them, so Sam could tell only that she was petite with red hair caught up in a tail under her cap.

He sucked in a deep breath, but Dean didn't seem to notice his distress. Or, if he did, he attributed it to the lingering effects of the manticore's venom.

Rubbing his hands together, Dean approached the display case. "Look, Sammy! Muffins. Oh shit look at those cinnamon rolls! Hey, miss, you got pie?"

The woman held up a finger. "Sorry, one sec," she said. "I'll be right with you."

Sam hung back a bit. He knew that voice: its low warmth, so incongruous to her small frame. It wasn't possible. He'd dreamt it all: the lighthouse, the Victorian on the cliff. Most of all the girl. Olivia. She wasn't real. Never had been.

The pastry all looked amazing, mouth-watering even, but he wasn't hungry. _Turn around_ , he thought. _Turn around turn around turn around!_

The woman, as though goaded by his mental commands, turned away from whatever task had her so occupied and offered Dean a friendly smile. Sam felt the world stop spinning. His heart pounded so hard he could feel it in his throat, and he had to wipe his sweaty palms against his jeans.

It was her. Impossible, but true. Her bright eyes, her straight nose, her pale, freckle-sprinkled skin. The full mouth he'd tasted in his dream-within-a-dream and the dimple that flashed in her chin when she smiled.

"Hi," she said, her smile widening. "I'm Olivia. What can I get for you boys?"


End file.
